


Just Hold on Tighter

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hugs, John Reese Lives, M/M, Root | Samantha Groves Lives, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: Hugs are for those desperate moments, the ones where the mission has already gone to hell but they're still hanging on for a little while...or maybe not.Five times John and Harold hugged, and one time they did more.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 9
Kudos: 100
Collections: Exchange of Interest 2020





	Just Hold on Tighter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



### The first time...

"We're supposed to be happy to see each other, Mr. Reese," Finch says, through a smile full of gritted teeth, low enough that only John can hear. And, yeah, it's been a while since John's hugged anyone—a long while—so he might be a little rusty, but Finch is the one who's stiff as a damn board, trying to stay as far away as possible, twitching like he's desperate to pull back and run.

They're playing old friends, but Finch can't seem to stop being Finch.

"So quit pulling away, _Harold,_ " John shoots back, tightening his arms around Finch's body, careful not to strain Finch's back. Up this close, he feels so small, fragile and human and soft. John could break him like a twig, like a bird, titanium in his spine be damned, and he's pretty sure Finch knows it, too.

Just the thought of hurting Finch makes him feel like shit. Early on, it didn't, in those days when every single word out of Finch's prissy, crooked mouth seemed to stab John deep in the skull. But this gig seems like it's going to last at least until one of them dies (probably him), and weird, fussy Harold Finch is starting to grow on him. If someone hurt Finch, he'd destroy them, would rip them to shreds with his bare hands. If _he_ hurt Finch...

"I think we've done this long enough." Finch steps back, breaking the contact and John's train of thought. "Let's get back to work."

John ignores the sting of disappointment, and he does as he's told.

### The second time...

They hole up in a crowded, shitty hotel's last vacancy, a cramped room with a single double bed that's better than nothing. (Better than some of the places John's slept, anyway.) He was reluctant to stop even to rest, but Harold started fading fast after they left the train station, drugs and raw exhaustion taking their toll. And, if John's honest with himself, he's feeling a little worn, too. If there's one thing he's learned over the years, it's that you've got to know when you _need_ to sit back and lick your wounds, instead of just wanting some rest. They need it.

He gets Harold fed, a meager little quarter of a turkey sandwich, a few red grapes—no apples, as Harold requested with a look of wide-eyed terror. No apples. No painkillers, either, not with god knows what kinds of sedatives roiling around in Harold's body, so Harold gets a straw in his can of ginger ale so he won't have to move his neck too much. Then Harold crashes. Soon as his head hits the pillow, he's out, not even waking up when John changes the bandage on his hand.

John won't rest easy until they're back in New York, but he thinks he can get away with dozing in the meantime. He ditches his jacket and drops down in an ugly wooden armchair with cushions like green, stained bricks, and lets his eyes fall shut.

He jolts out of a dreamless nap to the creeping feeling of eyes on him, and it takes a few seconds for clarity to sink back in. Hotel room. Rickety armchair. Harold. Harold, who's staring at him, eyes huge and troubled and haunted behind his glasses, body small and hunched in on itself. John tries a smile on him, hoping it's reassuring, and says, "You okay, Finch?"

Harold jumps, then shakes off his shock like it never happened. "Perfectly alright, Mr. Reese," he replies, but there's a tremor in his quiet voice that reveals far more than his words.

 _"You said you'd never lie to me,"_ John thinks of saying, but the time's not right for teasing. "It's okay if you're not," he goes with instead. "I'm sure not."

Harold nods, and John watches his throat bob in the shadow of his open collar. "In that case..." He pauses, pressing his lips together. "I don't...I hate to impose on you further, but could you, perhaps, do something else for me, please?" Before John can reply, Harold holds up a hand, and hastily adds, "You're free to say no, of course, but I—"

"Harold," he interrupts, soft and gentle. "What do you need?"

Wincing, Harold says, "I was wondering if you might...if you would, perhaps, be willing to give me a hug?" John's heart cracks, splitting more and more with every rushed and rambling word. "I'm not usually a fan, but I just..." Harold throws up his hands in a small, helpless shrug. "I'm sorry. I'm not really—you can just forget I said anything. I'm not really myself at the moment. I'm sure it doesn't matter. I probably won't—"

"Of course I'll hug you," John says, without hesitation, and he gets up and joins Harold on the bed, wrapping his arms around Harold's shivering body. Harold lets out a tiny, choked sound, halfway between a relieved sigh and a sob, and John pulls him close, lets Harold hold him as tight as he needs. It's so different from the last time he held Harold like this, with Harold so frightened and hurt instead of prickly and skittish. If anyone ever makes Harold feel like this again, he will kill them. "And we can pretend this never happened, too, if you want." Even though John hopes never to forget it.

Harold takes an audibly shaky breath, and nods, just a little. "That would be much appreciated, John. Thank you."

For as long as Harold needs, John holds him, angling himself between Harold and the door, shielding Harold from the world. He stays silent, not making promises he might not be able to keep about Harold's safety or murmuring soothing words they both know are bullshit. He just holds Harold, and holds him, and holds him, until Harold is ready to let go and pretend it never happened.

### The third time...

It's almost instinctual, a need that's been thrumming under John's skin ever since Harold typed that last number and they didn't go up in a blaze of failure and Semtex.

"There we go," Harold says, almost absently, setting the bomb vest gently on the table. "That's it, I think. I'll decide on how to dispose of this mess in the morning, once we've both had some—oh."

Heedless of any of his own wounds—but not ignoring Harold's; he'd never do that, never—John wraps himself around Harold, burying his face in the curve of Harold's shoulder with a helpless sob. Days of fear and pain and hell come bubbling to the surface, boiling over in a torrent of mindless need for closeness, contact, comfort. He needs to touch something good, someone good, needs it to be Harold, needs _Harold_. Needs to breathe him in, the familiar warmth of Harold, even the acrid stink of terror sweat clinging to Harold's skin, and, god, if Harold tries to push him away, he'll just hold on tighter.

Harold doesn't push him away. Instead, he says, "Oh my goodness," so softly, and gives John an awkward, hesitant pat on the back. "Oh, goodness."

"Harold," John breathes, clutching at Harold's jacket. _"Harold."_

"I'm here, John." He wraps his arms around John, finally, and John groans, as awkward pats turn to gentle rubbing. "I'm here. And so are you. We're safe now, John. It's over."

It's not. It'll never be over. But for now, he has Harold's arms around him, Harold's hands stroking his back, Harold murmuring soothing bullshit in his ear, and it's almost enough. It has to be enough.

He wishes it was enough. Wishes that Harold's reassurance was enough to convince him, because Harold's word should be enough, because Harold's gotten so deep inside his brain. The whole time he was in Rikers, the whole time Kara had him, he clung desperately to thoughts of Harold, to the unshakable certainty that Harold would fix this, that Harold would save him. He knew, deep in his gut, in his soul, that Harold would ignore all his pleas to be forgotten, that Harold wouldn't abandon him, no matter how much he should have.

But John knows it's never over. No matter how many times Harold comes for him, there will always be another, and another, and another waiting for him. And this wonderful, stubborn man who's holding him like he can barely remember how to hug someone won't stop coming. There has to be a way to make Harold stop. A way to protect him when he won't.

Later. John will figure that out later. His body aches, and his heart hurts, and he came so damn close to dying and taking the most important person in his world out with him. He doesn't have it in him to plan things out. All he has the strength left for is holding on to Harold—beautiful, wonderful, real Harold—burying his face in the curve of Harold's shoulder, and falling apart.

### The fourth+ time...

John doesn't like to remember the fourth time (and the fifth, sixth, maybe seventh—he loses count). It was a time when Harold was the only warm, bright thing still left in the cold and fucked-up and empty world, and not a single one of Harold's walls stood between him and the comfort John needed.

John walked away anyway.

Then, he came back.

### The fifth? time...

They're nearing the end of the road. Doesn't take a genius brain like Harold's to figure that out. And while John doesn't know what Harold's planning, what Harold's up to with that ICE-9 thing, probably wouldn't fully get it even if he did, he knows a last stand when he sees one. He's been in a few.

This one's the real one. This is going to be them walking in front of a firing squad—possibly literally—with crossed fingers and something almost, but not quite, like hope keeping them from running the other way.

He and The Machine have a deal, though, and he carries that little kernel of knowledge around in his chest like he used to tote around that bullet. If all goes well, Harold will come out of this alive. Whether or not John does is up to God or anything else that might be floating around out there, but at least he'll go out knowing the guy he loves, the guy the world _needs_ , is alive.

Finally—finally—he gets Harold alone, and he's pretty sure everything's going to go to hell as soon as they walk in that building. But he can't treat this like that. Hugs are for those desperate moments, the ones where the mission has already gone to hell but they're still hanging on for a little while, and if he acts like they've already lost, they will.

So he tries to be playful when he slings an arm over Harold's shoulders on the way toward the building, tries to ignore the faint trembling he can feel running through Harold's body and the fear rolling around in his own gut and the terrified, _"I love you,"_ hanging unspoken on the tip of his tongue. The _"I'm in love with you."_ The kiss it would be so easy to press to Harold's temple. Harold gives him a startled look at the contact, and John forces a teasing smirk, like they're the kind of buddies that hug like this all the time instead of so rarely John could probably count it on one hand (maybe two), the kind of guys who've fistbumped more than once, who call each other bros, who aren't them.

Neither of them says anything. They don't need to—not anymore, though there are so many things John wishes he was brave enough to say. Instead, he lets go, and they head inside.

He really hopes that firing squad isn't literal. There's a pretty big difference between wanting to die and being ready and willing to do it. He doesn't want to, not yet, not now, but he's ready to go if he has to. As long as Harold doesn't go down with him.

### And more...

When John said goodbye, Harold thought that was where their story ended. A noble, wholly unwanted sacrifice, and then John would live on solely in memory. But it wasn't the end: merely the closure of a chapter.

He's certain he's not worthy of the chapter that has started, but he is hardly going to complain. Not when, despite everything, John is still glad to be at his side—in the literal sense of the term, quite often, for some reason. _"Love,"_ John would likely say. John loves him. And while Harold wouldn't think his shoulder would make a comfortable pillow, John seems to disagree.

Or perhaps it's the proximity that has lulled John so deeply asleep. Harold is right where he suspects John's always wanted him: enclosed in John's embrace on the couch in their home, safe and whole. Harold's not sure he could free himself from John's grasp if he tried. He's caught in a tangle of long limbs, John's legs entwined with his, John's arms around him, John's hands lax and warm on his back and his waist. Pleasantly trapped, he thinks.

He doesn't mind. It's been a trying day for the both of them, spent wrangling two numbers of their own while helping Root and Sameen with a third. Only the wait for his evening painkillers to kick in is keeping him from joining John in the land of dreams. Nearly there. His eyelids are heavy, and the aches in his bones are nearly down to the quietest whisper of everyday pain now. His teacup is empty, his stomach and heart are full, he's finished the novel he was reading, and he is warm and comfortable with the man he loves. It's easy to close his eyes and drift off to the sound of soft jazz floating on air that still smells of apple pie, and the gentle rhythm of John breathing near his ear.

His mind wanders back to the first time he and John held each other so close—not counting the time John slammed him against a wall. Oh, how anxious he'd been to end the embrace as soon as it began, every inch of him screaming to push John away and flee to safety. And the second time, after he'd been kidnapped, when he'd wanted so badly to forget that he'd ever been that frightened, that vulnerable, but needed the comforting sanctuary of another's kind touch. Now, he wishes he could somehow burrow closer and never let go, for there to never be a reason to leave this spot again, for John to know him completely.

John does know him completely. In another chapter, that would have been terrifying. In this one, it is a relief.

It's difficult not to think of how close he came to losing this, to never having it in the first place and never even knowing what he was missing, and an old, familiar ache wells up inside his chest. He could have driven John away, could have lost John so many times—the bomb vest, when he held John so tightly for so long, even though he was no good at such things; later, so many near-misses. And then he _did_ lose John.

And in a world that operated fairly to him but not to John, that would have been his permanent fate, his penance. Root would not be miraculously alive, would never have tracked him down in the small, anonymous town in Italy he fled to after Grace informed him of her new beau (a good man, far better than Harold, in Harold's opinion). Root was still so pale and frail then that she looked like an impossible specter, and told him John was "still touch-and-go, but as alive as we are." John wouldn't have survived the gunshot wounds, the missile, the months spent in the hospital recovering. And, even if he had, he wouldn't have wanted Harold at the end of it all. Root, Sameen, and Lionel would not still be his dearest friends, and John _certainly_ would not be his lover.

Harold does not deserve the happiness he's been given. Sometimes—often—he cannot help but wonder why it was gifted to him anyway.

Before he can get too mired in guilt and analytical pondering, warm lips brush against his cheek, then John nuzzles his sideburn and murmurs, "Hey, you," like he's amazed that Harold is there, that Harold exists.

Harold smiles, and pats John's back—regrettably the best he can do in this position. "Hello," he says. "Did you have a good nap?"

"I did." John's lips press against his cheek again, soft and warm, and John's hand starts roaming over Harold's torso, like it was doing before John fell asleep, slow and curious. It was nerve-wracking, at first, having a lover who enjoyed touching him so much, whose hands seemed to linger on all the places that made Harold feel the most insecure. Now it's soothing to feel John's palm exploring his chest and his belly through his thin cotton undershirt, or to feel gentle fingertips trace the gnarled shape of a scar. John accepts him as he is, loves him as he is. Perhaps, one day, Harold will learn to feel the same about himself.

"Dreamed about you," John continues, voice dropping low and suggestive, hot on Harold's ear. A tantalizing shiver runs through him, settling between his thighs.

"Did you?" Harold says, as John's teeth graze the shell of his ear and John's fingers slide up his shirt and skim across the sensitive skin of his side, piquing Harold's body's interest. "Am I right in guessing it was a rather... _pleasurable_ dream?"

"Mm-hm." John laughs softly. Harold wouldn't have guessed that sexual activity would be a possibility tonight, exhausted as he is, but when John adds, "Want me to show you?" and his cock stirs, he suspects he's about to be proven spectacularly wrong.

John always has been quite good at proving him wrong.

"If you don't," Harold says, "I will be very disappointed."

John's answering grin spreads wide and filthy against his cheek, and Harold smiles, too.


End file.
